The Boarding-House

by William Trevor

  ‘May I speak to Major Eele, please?’

  ‘I think he’s in,’ said Studdy, laying down the receiver, interested. ‘Major, there’s a woman for you on the phone.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘She gave no name, sir.’

  Major Eele was hurrying across the television lounge, thinking wildly, wondering if Mrs Andrews for some reason wished to see him and had ferreted him out. He paused in the hall and beckoned Studdy with his forefinger. Whispering, he said:

  ‘Ask who it is, will you?’

  Studdy ran his fat tongue around the inside of his mouth. He swallowed a few crumbs of fried bread. He said:

  ‘The Major wishes to know who it is, madam.’

  ‘Mrs le Tor,’ said Mrs le Tor.

  ‘A Mrs le Tor,’ said Studdy.

  ‘Hullo, Mrs le Tor,’ said Major Eele.

  ‘I was simply wondering. Major, whether it mightn’t be a better idea to meet for lunch. Rather than tea, you know. Lunch is more of an occasion, isn’t it now? That is, if you can spare the time.’

  Studdy was standing close to Major Eele, trying to hear what the voice was saying. ‘Do you want something?’ asked Major Eele.

  ‘You remember we arranged to have tea. You had kindly invited me.’

  ‘No, no. I was speaking to someone else. Mr Studdy is at my elbow; I made the query of him.’

  Studdy moved away. He felt the leaves of the rubber plant, taking them in turn between thumb and forefinger. To lend greater authority to this action he spoke in a low voice, addressing some argument to himself.

  ‘Well, that would be fine. If lunch is your preference, Mrs le Tor, lunch it shall be.’

  ‘There is a five and sixpenny lunch at the Jasmine. Quite good value. Do you know the Jasmine, Major Eele?’

  ‘In the West End,’ said Major Eele for Studdy’s benefit, knowing that the Jasmine was a local cafe run by the Misses Gregory.

  Mrs le Tor laughed and said that the Jasmine was not in the West End at all but was a local place run by the Misses Gregory, who were quite good friends of hers. She gave directions for getting there, and Major Eele nodded, visualizing her long legs and red barbaric finger-nails. When she finished he said:

  ‘Since we have moved away from tea, why not go the whole hog and have dinner? Dinner is the thing nowadays.’

  Mrs le Tor allowed a pause to manifest itself along the wire.

  ‘How very kind of you, Major Eele. Alas, though, I fear the Jasmine does not do dinners.’

  ‘Well, somewhere else then. Somewhere in Jermyn Street,’ he added, with his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Or round the Curzon Street area. There are one or two places I frequent.’

  ‘There is nowhere else round here, really,’ said Mrs le Tor. ‘Unless we were to go into London. Chelsea perhaps?’

  ‘I do not care for that.’ He thought she was becoming like Mrs Andrews again: he remembered the cavern restaurant where he had spat out the Portuguese food. He slipped his hand over the mouthpiece again. ‘What about the Colony in Berkeley Square? All the big business boys go there. Would you care for that kind of thing?’

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs le Tor. ‘The Misses Gregory will cook us a dinner if I have a word with them. I’m sure they will. They’re kindness itself. Think of it, we’d have a lovely quiet dinner in the Jasmine, just the two of us. I’ll ring them up and call you back. Cheery-bye, Major Eele.’

  Mrs le Tor rang off, and Major Eele said into the dead receiver: ‘Young Armstrong-Jones might well be there.’

  He walked past Studdy, writing busily in a diary he had had for many years.

  ‘An old folks’ home,’ said Studdy. ‘That’s what’s in your mind, Nurse. Am I any way right?’

  She nodded.

  Studdy lit a cigarette of his own manufacture. He smiled, showing teeth in need of repair. He said:

  ‘You cannot fool me.’

  Nurse Clock, caught up with his teeth somehow, held by what she considered their unsavouriness, brought her eyelids firmly down and blotted out the sight. With closed eyes she turned her head away and spoke.

  ‘I did not wish to fool you, Mr Studdy.’

  ‘Ah no, we are in this together.’

  ‘You have often spoken of the aged. You would be a help to me in an old folks’ home, doing all the practical things. And the house is ours to share.’

  ‘Oh, definitely.’

  ‘We would make a bit of money, and if you did not take to the work I could buy you out.’

  ‘Ah no, that type of work suits me very well.’

  ‘A smart appearance would be vital, Mr Studdy.’

  ‘Ah, we’d definitely have to smarten up.’

  ‘Cleanliness is essential in a thing like this.’

  ‘Oh, certainly.’

  Nurse Clock hummed two bars of Hymn Thirteen.

  ‘A coat of paint all round, as once you said, Nurse.’

  ‘I was meaning, really, personal cleanliness.’

  ‘Personal cleanliness. Ah yes. You’re quite right.’

  Nurse Clock hummed again. ‘The late King’s favourite,’ she said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Abide With Me, the late King’s favourite.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Studdy. ‘We’ll sing that here. Nurse, on a Sunday morning and again at night, with all the old dads joining in. Sure, it’ll be the happiest–’

  ‘Mr Studdy, if you were occasionally to brush your teeth it would help to give that overall appearance of cleanliness and a smart appearance.’

  There was a pause, after which Studdy said:

  ‘Teeth?’

  ‘Do not take offence, Mr Studdy. Remember, this is a business relationship. We are setting up a business partnership. We cannot be remiss about mentioning something that will help us both. I’d like it to be an elegant place.’

  Studdy scratched at his teeth with the nail of his right forefinger.

  ‘I will brush my teeth with a tooth-brush,’ he said, saluting her with his open palm; and felt the hand itching to touch the pin. He wondered if the rewards were going to be worth it, and consoled himself with a series of images: his hands opening old biscuit tins full of incriminating letters, his voice talking subtly to a whole houseful of richer Mrs Maylams, discussing a line or two in a will. He wagged his head and began to smile. Then, remembering what Nurse Clock had said about his teeth, he desisted, locking them behind his lips.

  ‘They’ll have to go, every one of them,’ said Studdy.

  ‘Oh, no, I’m sure that is not necessary. Brush them often, as you say. Perhaps visit a dentist.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It is surely not necessary to have your teeth taken out. I did not mean that, Mr Studdy.’

  ‘I will brush my teeth with a tooth-brush. I have promised that.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I was speaking about the residents. I was thinking they would have to go.’

  ‘Oh, of course, Mr Studdy.’

  15

  Miss Clerricot and Mr Sellwood caught the seven forty-five train to Leeds.

  ‘Breakfast?’ suggested Mr Sellwood.

  Miss Clerricot had had an early breakfast at The Boarding-House. She had risen at half past five because she could not sleep.

  She suggested coffee, but there was trouble about that because breakfast was being served and a cup of coffee by itself was not breakfast. She returned to their compartment, leaving Mr Sellwood with a newspaper, awaiting a plate of bacon and eggs.

  Studdy, who had pursued Miss Clerricot from The Boarding-House to King’s Cross, saw the train move off and went to have a cup of tea in one of the large cafeterias. He had left The Boarding-House without having had time to shave, and as he carried his tea to an empty table his overcoat fell open, revealing evidence of hasty dressing. He sat for a while in thought and drew eventually from an inside pocket his lined writing pad and a pencil. He wrote:

  Dear Mr Sellwood,

  I put it to you that your lady wife would be mo
re than interested to learn that on the morning of August 28th at seven thirty-three precisely you were seen to mount a Leeds-bound train in the company of a woman. I put it to you that you subsequently spent two nights in the city of Leeds with this same woman, and reputedly with others, and were observed by sworn witnesses to act in a profligate manner. My assistants and I have compiled a sworn dossier that when published will cause you to leave these shores. If you wish to prevent this unhappy event, please leave two pounds in an envelope addressed to M. Moran at the reception desk of your office, to be collected on September 7th. The money will be invested on behalf of a religious organization.

  Respectfully,

  A friend to decent morals.

  He sealed the envelope, marked it Urgent and Personal, and dropped it into a letter-box without the addition of a stamp. Despite his recent failure with Mrs Rush, there was little doubt in Studdy’s mind that Mr Sellwood’s immediate reaction to his message would be to place two pound notes in an envelope and address it hastily as requested.

  ‘Our railway system is still ahead,’ Mr Sellwood commented. ‘Egg, bacon, sausage, fried potatoes, fried tomatoes, coffee, toast, butter, marmalade. Where in the world would you get the equal of that?’

  ‘The United States of America,’ replied a man sitting opposite, who from his voice hailed from that country. ‘The United States has built an empire on personal service.’

  Mr Sellwood, taken aback, said that he had been to the United States.

  ‘Name of Bone,’ said the man, and added further details. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

  ‘I am interested to hear you say service,’ said Mr Sellwood. ‘Private enterprise–’

  ‘Personal service on airlines,’ said the man called Bone.

  ‘Trans World Airlines. Have you been on Trans World Airlines, sir?’

  ‘I have not,’ confessed Mr Sellwood.

  ‘One of the truly great airlines,’ said the man.

  ‘Have you come over on holiday?’ Miss Clerricot asked, feeling obliged to contribute.

  ‘Holiday!’ shouted Mr Bone, a small, almost round man with spectacles. ‘Holiday!’ he repeated.

  ‘I am particularly interested in community services,’ said Mr Sellwood. ‘For example, our banking here is rather interesting: perhaps you have had time to study it?’

  ‘You in that line?’ asked Mr Bone.

  ‘Oh no, not at all. It is just that as a service to the nation banking absorbs me greatly. We have here what we call our Big Five: Lloyd’s, Barclay’s, the National Provincial, the Westminster, and the Midland. I do not put them in any particular order, they all provide a highly efficient service.’

  ‘I,’ said Mr Bone, ‘bank with Chase Manhattan. It has never let me down.’

  ‘We have as well,’ said Mr Sellwood, ‘Martin’s Bank, a most interesting foundation, dating from 1563; and Coutts and Cox’s. But it is not the quantity of our banks that I wish to draw your attention to, it is the quality of the service they give. The same, Mr Bone, whether you are in the heart of our capital or in any market town.’

  Miss Clerricot did not speak again until the train drew in at Leeds. She said then, because she felt she should remind Mr Sellwood of her presence on the train:

  ‘What a pleasant journey! ‘

  ‘Interesting about the Chase Manhattan,’ remarked Mr Sellwood.

  Major Eele collected his dark flannel suit from the Tip Top Cleaners and bought himself a small rosebud. He walked slowly back to Jubilee Road, considering imaginatively the evening that lay before him. He laughed to himself over his early error: taking Mrs le Tor to be a tart. His train of thought led him deep into the past, and he was put in mind of Bicey-Jones, who years ago had caused such excitement in the dormitory with his tales of a motherly French tart he claimed to have picked up one afternoon in Piccadilly. She had, so Bicey-Jones reported, kept on much of her underclothing, but what had always seemed more interesting to Major Eele was that while Bicey-Jones was extracting his money’s worth this elderly Frenchwoman had occupied herself by squeezing blackheads from his face. Ever since Major Eele had come to live in London he had been periodically tantalized by this story, unable to decide whether or not to believe it. If he met Bicey-Jones tomorrow he would ask him straight away if in fact the woman had removed his blackheads, and if so whether she had done so at his bidding.

  That afternoon the Major rested, reading Urge in the television lounge. He had arranged the volume within the green plastic cover that The Boarding-House supplied for the Radio Times. He dropped off to sleep about four o’clock and when he woke half an hour later he suffered a small shock, because for a moment he imagined that he was still married to Mrs Andrews. ‘Meet me in our Berkeley bar,’ she seemed to have said, going off to have her hair done; but then he remembered that it was Mrs le Tor he was to meet that evening and he gave a thankful sigh.

  ‘Well, Miss Clerricot, would you care for a cocktail?’

  Miss Clerricot said she would. She had spent the afternoon walking about Leeds while Mr Sellwood had conducted his business.

  ‘A gin and tonic, Miss Clerricot? Or a gin and bitter lemon? Or a gin and – What would you like?’

  She said she would like sherry. Mr Sellwood said that was a capital choice. He paused before ordering it: he had seen the creation of sherry, he said, while on a family holiday in Spain. He told Miss Clerricot about it.

  Mr Sellwood drank sherry too. ‘A good sherry,’ he acclaimed it after a sip. ‘A good sherry,’ he repeated to a passing barman, and the barman bowed.

  In a huge, elaborately framed mirror Miss Clerricot saw the image of Mr Sellwood and herself. The mirror was some way away, and she did not at first recognize the woman in a black suit and the thin, slightly stooped, bald man. Then the woman’s head moved and Miss Clerricot saw her own mouth smiling and quickly looked away.

  ‘What a pleasant hotel,’ she said.

  ‘It is one of a vast chain,’ Mr Sellwood explained. ‘A chain that is, I always hold, run on the most excellent lines. Are you interested in hotels, Miss Clerricot?’

  She found it difficult to answer this question. She had never thought very much about hotels: she rarely stayed in them.

  ‘The organization of a big hotel,’ said Mr Sellwood, lighting a cigarette, ‘is absolutely fascinating.’

  She wondered if he ever went to the cinema, or to the theatre, or to an art exhibition. She wondered what he did on his family holidays besides observing the manufacture of sherry. He stayed in hotels, she imagined, and noted their organization, while his wife, whom she saw silent beside him, drank, perhaps, a great deal of gin.

  ‘The heart of any hotel,’ said Mr Sellwood, ‘is its kitchen. It is what happens in the kitchen and what comes from the kitchen, and the briskness with which it comes, that put hotels into their categories. Mind you, I’m not for a moment saying that lounges and the writing-rooms must not be well-appointed.’ Mr Sellwood talked on, and said after five minutes: ‘What was it we were drinking?’

  One expected, Miss Clerricot thought, a fresh aspect of a person when circumstances changed; when Mr Sellwood, for example, rose from behind his desk and took her out to lunch, not once but several times, and took her to Leeds and gave her glass after glass of sherry to drink. But Mr Sellwood scarcely changed at all. This is a case of Jekyll and Hyde, thought Miss Clerricot: in a moment now, or later on, Mr Sellwood would froth a little at one corner of his mouth, his eyes would glaze and his hands develop a strength like steel. She thought he might pale, and she saw in the glazed eyes small specks of blood.

  ‘Two more sherries,’ said Mr Sellwood to the barman. ‘I am going to time this,’ he added to Miss Clerricot, ‘and see how long it takes.’

  Miss Clerricot thought: He will get drunk and fall about, and then one small thing will lead to another; I shall see his hands become taut and cold, I shall watch his face for the white foam and the glazing of the eyes and then the flecks of blood.

  ‘Thirty seconds
,’ said Mr Sellwood, and to the barman: ‘Well done, sir.’

  The barman, amazed, hurried away with Mr Sellwood’s ten-shilling note, expecting a notable tip, and was disappointed when the moment came.

  Miss Clerricot laughed to herself at this vision of Mr Sellwood in her mind: she knew she was having a private joke, she didn’t for a moment believe that Mr Sellwood would change his nature. What was he like as a boy? she wondered.

  ‘Interesting about the Chase Manhattan,’ said Mr Sellwood. ‘I had no idea about any of that. One does meet some interesting fellows on trains.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Clerricot. ‘Did you have a satisfactory afternoon?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Did all go well this afternoon?’

  ‘I met a man,’ said Mr Sellwood, ‘on a train once, whose brother had written the history of one of our smaller insurance companies. It happened that the man was reading the book at the time; that is how the conversation came up. I afterwards wrote to the man’s brother, having read the book myself in the meantime, and said how much I had enjoyed it, and added in a postscript that I had met his brother on a journey from Aylesbury to London.’

  Miss Clerricot smiled, offering encouragement.

  ‘I had a most civil letter in reply, but to my utter astonishment the fellow said he had no brother at all, and was in fact an only child. I wrote at once to apologize, explaining what had happened and describing the man on the train. He was a smallish man, with sandy eyebrows, I remember, and a rather red face. He had been wearing a waterproof coat, one of those plastic things. I thought it odd at the time to wear a plastic coat in a first-class compartment, but of course I said nothing. Well, this second fellow, the author of the book, dropped me a postcard, thanking me for my letter and making some joke, I’ve forgotten what it was.’

  ‘How very odd,’ said Miss Clerricot.

  ‘I thought it odd. Well, frankly, it preyed a bit on me, and a month or so later I wrote to this fellow again, just to ask him if anything had come to light. I thought perhaps that the man in the train might have been arrested or something, for posing as the other fellow’s brother – well, not arrested perhaps, but at least brought to task …’